Like an Arrow Through Loki's Eye-Socket
by Diabolical Bowler Hat
Summary: Healing comes in many forms, but even for S.H.I.E.L.D agents Tactical Evaluations were an unusual form of therapy.


"I know you're there" Clint said to the man he could sense lurking behind him, "you always did know where to find me at times like this" he added, not even turning around.

"That's what happens when you're someone's handler for 15 years" said Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D, as he carefully planted himself next to his protégé and friend. They were perched (somewhat precariously for Phil's liking) on the edge of Clint's apartment building roof, the Manhattan skyline glowing in the distance.

"And once I figured out you liked to be up high, it didn't take much to figure out your resting place of choice… you're not as much of an enigma as you like to think Barton." Phil said with a slight smile, before a serious expression took its place. Both Clint and he knew why he had come to roof, and now was as good a time as any to start the conversation.

"Do you want to do the tactical evaluation now or later?"

The question was straight and to the point, typical of all the interaction between the two agents, but Clint couldn't help but look away. He wasn't ready for this conversation; the wounds were still too fresh.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask to never do it?" Clint asked in reply, already knowing the answer.

"Better to go through the evaluation now while the memories are still fresh in your mind." This was Coulson's standard response, often adopted when Clint wanted to put off paperwork.

"I don't think these are things that I'm ever going to forget Phil." Clint said solemnly, looking at his friend for the first time since he had sat down beside him.

He suspected Clint was going to say something like that, after all how could someone just forget something so horrific as having your mind controlled by another? But it was the use of his first name that worried him. Clint and he never used first names. While they had long counted each other as brothers, they still always called each other 'Coulson' and 'Barton.'

"Well, let's start at the beginning and go from there."

"The beginning of what Phil? My time in New Mexico or my time as a traitor?" Clint asked bitterly.

"Why don't we start with when Director Fury asked you about the tessarect?" This conversation was going to happen. Coulson was determined. After all, this was their post-mission routine and Clint needed this routine now more than ever.

"I told him that there was no foul-play on our end, but that the tessarect was a doorway and that doors open from both sides…" Clint said, adding in a somewhat subdued tone "…then all hell broke loose."

Clint's tone conveyed the depth of his discomfort with this topic and Coulson knew that he was currently reliving what was one of the worst experiences of his adult-life. But Phil also knew that they needed to continue. Even if for no other reason than getting Clint one step closer to being able to sleep at night.

"What next?"

"Loki put his sceptre to my chest, said 'you have heart', my world went blue, ice shot through my veins and then I shot the Director." Clint said, his shoulders slumping and his eyes remaining fixed on a seemingly fascinating fire hydrant on the ground below.

"You shot the Director." Phil repeated. "Interesting."

"Interesting? I can think of many words to describe my shooting Director Fury, but interesting isn't bloody one of them." Clint said shortly.

"The director isn't dead though." Phil pointed out.

"What bloody difference does that make?" Clint growled, beginning to regret not throwing Coulson off the roof when he'd sat down.

"You never miss." Was all Phil said, was all he needed to say to keep the conversation going in the direction he wanted.

"Well I did then!"

"And when you tried to shoot Agent Hill, you missed again." Phil added, willing Clint to understand what he was trying to show him. "You couldn't even blow up the helecarrier properly. The Clint I know could have done that in less than 5 minutes."

"I wasn't the Clint you knew." Clint said, locking eyes with his friend for the first time since he sat down beside him.

"No… I don't think you were."

"But that doesn't change anything Coulson." Clint said quietly, "it doesn't change the fact that I killed my own. The fact that I killed S.H.I.E.L.D agents with my own hands, or the hands that I'd hired to take you all down."

"But you missed Clint. You missed three _substantial_ targets. If you'd succeeded in taking out just one of those targets, well, Loki's invasion would have been a very different story." Phil said, starting to turn this conversation to where he had wanted it to go all along.

"It was dumb luck Coulson, I had no control when Loki turned me." Clint said. And slowly, the reality of what he'd just said started to sink in.

"That's right, you had NO control." Phil repeated slowly. "And I think in the few moments when you did, you saved hundreds of lives."

"Alright Phil, whatever you say." Clint said with a sigh, his feet becoming the focus of his attention once more. He still couldn't let go of the guilt, he wouldn't let himself, not when Loki's invasion and his own brainwashed betrayal had cost him so much.

"Let's do a proper tactical evaluation and I'll prove it to you." Phil said, confident that he was now beginning to break through. "First shot: Fury. Outcome: objective failed… But maybe there were variables? A momentary distraction? Quickly moving targets? Adverse weather conditions? Did Fury suddenly duck for cover?" Phil asked, performing their usual shot-by-shot review of their missions.

"I didn't miss. I aimed for the chest and fired. Target went down. Outcome: objective attained." Clint countered.

"So you aimed for the chest? You, S.H.I.E.L.D's _best_ marksman, aimed for the chest?"

"Training dictates that I aim for the biggest mass." Clint mumbled, knowing that with his propensity for ignoring all of his training, his answer was weak at best, and a downright lie at worst.

"Oh of course… It was your training… Just out of curiosity, what does your training say to do when you _know_ the target's wearing Kevlar?"

"Aim for the head." Clint replied automatically.

"Aim for the head." Phil repeated. "And remind me again who told Fury it would be in his interest to start wearing Kevlar, Clint?"

"I did."

"And yet you didn't go for the headshot as your training dictated?"

"No."

"Outcome: Director Fury lives to fight another day. Mission failed. Target endures." Phil concluded. "You resisted Clint, and you saved the Director's life. Just like with Hill. And just like with the helecarrier."

"It doesn't make me feel any less guilty." Clint said softly, with a sigh "and failing to kill Fury doesn't wipe out the red now permanently written in my ledger."

"It never will Clint, but it's a start…"

The door opened behind him and Clint looked up at the newcomer with a small smile, noting that Coulson had always managed to make him feel better, even if it was with his stupid tactical evaluations.

"Who are you talking to?" Natasha Romanoff asked as she walked over to her partner, sat alone on the roof.

"A friend" Clint replied with a shrug.


End file.
